CHAPTER X
GROUND SLEUTHING
Three Hendee Hawks nosed out across the navy field and roared south. Stan’s ship formed the spearhead of a sharp V. O’Malley refused to keep still. He sang and talked about everything he could think of, which was a wide range of subjects. Allison held the right hand slot and said nothing. Stan held the big motor up ahead of him at a pace that would have ripped the pistons out of any other ship. He felt at home with the engine up in front of him instead of at his back.
The take-off had been later than he had planned, but with the terrific cruising speed the Hawks could maintain, they would reach London early. Dusk filled the earth below and the stars came out. Stan couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was need for speed. He could not drive that uneasiness out of his mind or bury it under other thoughts. He was sure Allison was as worried as he. O’Malley didn’t appear to have a worry at all.
Hours later they sighted London. They sighted it because of the thick muck of flaming shells and the searchlights knifing back and forth through the mass of bursting steel. The Jerries were at it again and seemed to have slipped inside the balloons and the ring of Ack-Ack guns.
“Looks like more of Garret’s dirty work,” Allison snarled.
“That sneakin’ spalpeen! Just let me cross his trail this night. He’ll find out what sixteen Brownings can do,” O’Malley rumbled.
“Don’t shoot him down,” Stan ordered grimly. “And keep your mouth shut about him.”
The three Hendee Hawks came roaring down upon the nice party the Jerries had planned. The Spitfires were up, but they were off their contact. Though they were now roaring back to give battle, they were too late to save the city from a terrible beating, unless the Hawks succeeded in breaking up the formation. Stan imagined he could hear the Stuka leader’s voice crackling in over the radio.
“Left wheel, dive bombers 6, 8, 10 attack positions 27, 39, 49.”
He knew such a command had been given because a mass of Stukas, marked clearly by the searchlights and the fires below, were swooping down. They were very low over the city, far below the Hawks.
“Peel off and go into action. Break the spearhead,” Stan snapped into his flap mike.
The Hawks peeled off and went down, O’Malley first, then Stan, and then Allison. The drone of their motors was terrific and their pilots were slapped back against their shock pads and held there. Down Stan went, straight for the leading Stuka. The bombers had not started peeling off so there was still time.
The leading Stuka never knew where the lightning came from. With a swastika backed by a red field in his windscreen, Stan pressed the gun button and sliced through the middle of the killer, breaking it into almost two separate parts.
The Hawk faded to the right and another Stuka rolled past him, unaware that death was dropping from the sky. Stan put her up 200 feet; and then, his motor screaming, he laid over and was upon the Stuka, his guns belching death. The bomber staggered and winged over, spilling men out of her hull like sacks out of a van.
Savagely, Stan rolled and twisted seeking another target. O’Malley had gotten into the formation first and he was taking it apart with a display of aerial gymnastics that made the Jerries forget anything but escape. Allison was cutting away far to the left and the carefully planned blitz was already a fearful rout, with death as the lot of most of the killers. Scattered, they zoomed and dived, seeking only to escape. As they went twisting out of their formations, low over the city, the cables of death claimed many victims.
Then the Spitfires of Moon Flight came roaring in from a wild chase to the east and the rout was complete. Within a few minutes the astonished gunners and the men at the lights below began to realize that somehow what had seemed certain to be a terrible luftwaffe had been turned into a victory. The Ack-Ack boys laid off. Then Moon Flight plus Red Flight bored upward to see how many Messerschmitts Herr Goering had sent along as fighter planes. The ME’s came cascading downward, eager to see their charges safely home. There was a flight of forty and another of fifty. They were met by three streaking silver planes that carried no dull paint and looked like commercial craft out for a spree. The three had out-climbed the Spitfires.
Stan swerved to the right to give O’Malley room. He had outflown the Irishman and was grinning. O’Malley still had a few things to learn about a Hawk before he could get everything out of his big engine. He slashed into the formation with guns raking the descending ships. Past them he flashed and bored on into the darkness. When he got back into position again, the Spitfires had arrived and the Messerschmitts were scattering and ducking into the night.
“Calling the Hawks. Calling the Hawks,” Stan called.
“Sure, an’ it was a poor show,” O’Malley’s voice came in. “This colleen has the need of two big eyes to see where the spalpeens go when they run away.”
“This will be nice news for the Nazis to broadcast,” Allison called.
“Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in. Enemy dispersed.” The call was from the field below.
Then Garret’s voice broke in. “Squadron Leader of Moon Flight reporting. Enemy dispersed with many casualties. Two of our fighters left formation.”
“Bah,” Stan heard O’Malley growl.
They went down with the Spitfires and rolled into the floodlights. The O.C. was there and very much excited. Before Stan could reach the door of the briefing room Farrell had him.
“We watched the show, what we could see of it. Those Hawks were great. But how did you come to disregard my orders as to the hour of your leaving the naval base?”
Stan smiled. “Don’t you think it lucky we did, sir?”
“It was more than lucky. Many lives would have been lost and much damage done. I’m afraid we would have come in for some stiff criticism.” He shook his head. “Garret gets off slow, but this is the second time he has cleaned up.”
The O.C. hurried away, still shaking his head. Stan barged into the room and reported as a part of Moon Flight. The briefing officer hesitated about putting down the three Hawks.
“We have no planes of that type or name,” he complained.
“Step yerself out to the field an’ have a look,” O’Malley suggested.
Stan was watching Garret narrowly. The Squadron Leader was scowling bleakly as he moved up to the desk. He seemed in a great hurry. Stan kicked O’Malley on the shin and left without filling out a report. Allison stayed to make the regulation report in detail and to answer questions fired at him about the new ship. O’Malley failed to take Stan’s hint and stayed to have his say about the Hawks.
Stan hurried to his quarters and got out of his flying togs. He wasn’t officially on duty and he had a few things he wanted to do. He headed along the hallway, keeping out of sight. Garret came in and he was almost running. He charged into his room and Stan heard him changing clothes. Suddenly there was no sound at all from the room and Stan slipped to the door. Garret was supposed to be on duty, ready to go up again in case another raid came over. He listened carefully, then tried the knob. The door was open and he looked into the room.
What Stan saw made him shove inside at once. Garret had vanished, but in his haste he had left a trail. One window was open. Stan saw clothes tossed about showing the haste with which he had changed. He leaped to the window and slipped out, letting himself to the ground.
As he pushed aside a thick bush near the wall he saw the street dimly. There was no one on it wearing a Royal Air Force uniform. The only person on the dark street was a man in civilian clothes. Stan stared hard for a moment, then sucked in his breath and started after the man, who was sauntering swiftly into the darkness.